by Gideon Burton
It will be colder, slightly, as the wind,
the arctic wind, across the tundra sweeps
the errant snow, its icy fingers thin
and bony, grasping at my spine for keeps--
the day that Jesus comes, awaited day
when terror comes as rain and grace as rain
as well. Descending, silent, louder than
creation, bidding ends begin; when pain,
as grain and chaff, is subject to his fan.
But neither here nor there, I will attend
the waves of choice and chance both strong and still:
the rising tension, light that burns and bends,
and what goes empty I will stop and fill.
It may be colder but I will be warm,
awake to what will sleep when comes that storm.
Photo: flickr - the trial